Sons of Venus
by VoxNexus
Summary: Spartacus reflects on his and Varro's relationship and what it is developing into. Lemon/Lime.


He was beginning to visit me more and more often. His consistent presence becoming like an entity all on its own; clinging to the very walls, the very bones of the ludus and incurring it with an ironic calming quintessence. Out of all the gladiators, he smiled the most, laughed the most and was brimming with a buoyant liveliness that was rare in a place so volatile. It was strange, but I welcomed it. Sometimes when he'd visit me, it was so he could ride out the aches and migraines that clung to him because of his voracious drinking habits. In those nights, when deep sleep had taken him, his eyelids

would subtly – sometimes rapidly, flutter as his dreams played out beneath them. In those moments, he would turn his head and sometimes let out groans deep enough his cries seemed to rattle out of him and his body would tremble. Sometimes I held him, I'm not sure if he knows of this.

One time, after being bested in a match, he had come down with a fever hot enough to have him trashing against tourniquet and restraints as the medicus salved his wounds. I would visit him and sometimes he'd mumble the name of his son and wife. Then sometimes, it was my name. I did not mind this either.

The first time we kissed was during a celebration of orgiastic splendor being hosted by our Dominus. The consuls arrived with a procession of patricians, accompanied by the aging magistrate Calavius. There was the usual sly verbal sparring sessions between Batiatus and Selonius and a demand for spectacle. I was summoned to entertain the guests with demonstration against Crixus, who'd sweat just thinking about shedding my blood to regain his title. We sparred, both of us armed with gladius and sizing up the other before lunging for attack and parry. When we had exhausted ourselves from show and the nights events closed off with the house slaves servicing the guests in food, drink and other bodily pleasures, I retired back to my station. My legs aflame from standing for so long.

I expected Varro that night, and as expected, he showed, his expression brighter than ever. "Crixus tries to out-match you." It wasn't a question, but a statement riddled with excitement. He was content with the outcome of that night's fight. I had won and Crixus was left to brood and beat on the walls of his stall in self-deprecating frustration. The gladiators across from his room reported that the Gaul seemed taken by a temporary bout of madness – again.

"Crixus's time has passed," I had reasoned. I did not resent Crixus, in fact, I more pitied him. His worth, the value of his life, lied in a title given to him by Rome – by his masters. I was then champion of Capua, but I knew the fondness that came with such position would always be downtrodden by reality. The reality that I, as well as all the other gladiators – no matter title – were slaves. Slaves to the pits, the arena and to the sway and roar of the crowd.

"Yes, yes it had," Varro's voice seemed far off, like a distant hush. I turned to him and we caught each others gazes.

There was something emanating between us. At the time I wasn't sure if it was the tug of friendship or the draw of lovers. We both had wives, we both were surrounded by an ever-changing mirage of temptations that faded from wine to women. I was unfamiliar to the coarseness, the roughness that attested to the touch of a man. I had never inquired of Varro's intimate passions because it never interested me since both of us seemed content with limiting ourselves to feminine wiles. Yet, it had been months since I had invested in any such pleasures and Varro's desperation and toxic loneliness led him crawling between the legs of a household harlot. I did not confront him for his treachery, but I knew he saw the question and accusation in my eyes. He flinched when he crossed my path after having slept with the prostitute.

"One day we may have to face each other..." The words slipped out of my mouth, quiet and vulnerable. The sadness that invaded Varro's eyes flitted through for a barely noticeable instant before being replaced by a glowing enthusiam.

"And if that day comes-," - he swung an arm around my shoulders, the firmness of them cradling me, "-we will give the other a glorious death." He smiled at this assertion, causing his cheeks and ears to perk up, enhancing the boyish quality of his features.

I smirked, "Glory you say? What is glorious about dying in slavery?" It was then I realized the short distance between us, as a hot puff of breath brushed against my face as Varro half-hardheartedly scoffed at me.

"_Great_ Spartacus, _Champion _of Capua!" He stressed, his voice near chiming, "_Bringer_ of Rain! _Slayer_ of the Shadow of Death! It is said, that even Mars pays you homage!" He was grinning now and his face was flushed with a gaiety uncommon amongst slaves. I wondered once more how he could be filled with such delight, even when confronted with the topic of his or my own death.

I found my palm pressed up against his face, seemingly on it's own accord and for a second, I thought I felt a tremor rush through him in the instance that I touched him. "Oh Varro," I chuckled, my voice was thick with something I could not name. Pain? Premature mourning at the thought of his death? I traced the side of his face with my knuckles, not entirely sure the purpose of it,but I excused it since Varro leaned into the touch.

"Even Mars pays homage..." I let out a throaty laugh, "It is the first time I've heard such a claim." I sharpened my gaze and forced a chilling edge to my tone, "Some would call such an allegation blasphemous." At this, Varro squeezed my shoulder and pulled me in closer.

"Then let them," he challenged.

I felt my face grow hot at the growing realization of our closeness. I could feel the warmth of Varro's skin radiating from him, and nearly taste the musk mingling in the air from his scent. The crinkle of his blonde hair, the slight stir of his curls every time he moved his head, was much more discernible from where I now sat. My eyes skimmed over his frame, noting the lean strength in his legs to the muscular curves in his arms.

"Your mind travels elsewhere champion?" Varro asked, the question was spoken innocently enough, without the slightest suggestive inflection.

I smiled, "Just thinking about the games, that's all." I had never lied to Varro, but I dared not sever the casualness of our interaction with inappropriate gist.

He believed me, or so it seemed. "You mind is to consumed by worry of the future," his hand now rested beneath my chin, in a way that was supportive but not forceful. "Empty your mind of such troubles, for at least a night."

_For at least a night._

I wasn't sure if I was hearing things, but _that_ fragment of the phrase, seemed pervaded with implication. I did not want to insinuate what was not there, so I did not speak of it, even when his lips flecked up into a smirk. I dismissed his expression as him showing amusement at my uncharacteristic silence.

"What say you Spartacus?" He prodded He rested his free hand on my inner thigh and the skin there seemed to burn.

"I suppose there is some truth in what you say," I partially hoped that admitting this would satisfy Varro and compel him to leave. It did not.

"Some truth?" He let on a tone that was sardonic and almost slurred his words, "How can you possibly know what it is like to not be so burdened unless you take into account my advice?" He was smirking then, sly and sweet, all at once.

"I am taking into account your words Varro," I said tersely.

Varro rubbed his thumb against the skin of my thigh and his grip on my chin tightened. "No you are not," and then he kissed me. It was more tender than I assumed it would be. Filled with a saccharine tinge that I thought Venus only reserved to make irresistible the lips of women. I did not pull back, nor did I respond, I allowed him to press and tug and push and pull against my lips. The longer I withheld any response the more aggressive he became, wordlessly insisting I return his affections. I did not, I merely meditated under the spell of his senses. The rasped sound of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, the hardness of his arms as he pushed me back up against the bench. I was full of him and it was as his teeth grazed my neck that I made a sound.

I pressed my hands up against his chest and slowly pushed him off of me, he followed my lead and lifted his weight so that our gazes could linger on each other. I am not sure what I looked like to him, used, hollow-eyed...was my face teeming with desire? His was. His already full lips were moist and an odd shade of pink and his eyes, brown and wide, were wider still as they shone with a want, a _need _so intense if seemed to be suffocating him.

"For one night then...?" I asked.

Varro nodded and our night, personal and passionate, melded into the morning.


End file.
